


Now That I See You

by Rehearsal_Dweller



Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Holidays, M/M, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:46:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28096380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rehearsal_Dweller/pseuds/Rehearsal_Dweller
Summary: In which there are headaches, glasses, and holiday sweaters.
Relationships: Racetrack Higgins/David Jacobs
Comments: 26
Kudos: 35





	Now That I See You

**Author's Note:**

> This is, in essence, my response to being _called the heck out_ on tumblr recently, [when one of my friends absolutely nailed exactly a fic I would write.](https://agentsnickers.tumblr.com/post/635728893405446144/modern-au-newsies-fic-daveyrace-race-keeps) So I set out to write that fic. I didn't actually get it beat-for-beat but I think the core of it is there. Enjoy!

Race doesn’t have a lot of regrets in his life, all told. He’s always been the kind of person who just sort of jumps in when a thought occurs, when a whim hits, so it’s not like he’s left a lot undone in his twenty-four years.

But the regrets he does have are big ones.

Like today, which finds Race lying in bed with the worst headache he’s ever had in his life, buried under four pillows in an effort to block out the 10AM sunlight streaming into his room though the big window and the sound of his neighbor mowing her lawn. He was not succeeding particularly well, and found himself deeply, deeply regretting not just giving in and wearing his glasses for the last few days after running out of contacts.

There’s a tap on the door. “Race? Are you still in here?”

Race groans.

The door creaks, and a moment later there’s a weight on the side of Race’s bed.

“Race,” Davey says softly. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Head hurts,” Race says.

Davey hums. “I’ll let Jack know you’re not coming.”

Race sits up, pillows falling away. He makes himself a little dizzy doing it. That’s another regret.

“I didn’t say that, I can still go!” Race says.

Today is the annual holiday get together for their friend group, and he and Davey are supposed to meet up with Jack beforehand to get things set up at his place. They’ll go to the ice rink together, but the party’s supposed to migrate to Jack’s before it gets too out of hand. Usually they only manage that to moderate success.

Davey frowns, a little crease forming between his eyebrows. “You’re not looking so hot, Racer.”

“You know how to woo a guy, don’cha, Davey?” Race says, mock offended. In reality, he probably feels worse than he looks.

“You can sleep a little longer,” Davey says softly. He runs his fingers through his hair, but the one stubborn curl that always falls into his face springs back into place as soon as his fingers pass it. “Meet us at the rink?”

“No, I’m fine,” Race lies. “I just need, like, an ibuprofen and my glasses.”

“Your glasses,” echoes Davey. “That’s what this is about, isn’t it? You haven’t been wearing your glasses.”

“I have contacts!”

“You were whining two weeks ago about running out of contacts soon.”

“Look. I’m fine, I’ll be fine,” says Race. “I’m good for the party, Davey, promise.”

Davey hums again, disbelieving. “You let me know if you need to leave, though, okay? If you feel anywhere near as shit as you look, it’s only gonna get worse in a room full of the loudest people on the planet.”

“I will,” Race says sincerely. “I promise.”

Davey smiles. Then he snags one of Race’s pillows and smacks him with it. “Then get the _fuck_ up, because we were supposed to leave ten minutes ago.”

Despite himself, Race laughs.

(The list of Race’s regrets does _not_ include moving in with Davey Jacobs, whose mom friend tendencies and regular friend tendencies often combined into moments like this, where he’s thoughtful and concerned one second and a little shit the next. It keeps them all on their toes, and tends to keep Race from feeling _too_ much like an idiot when he’s inevitably the target of Davey’s worry.)

They make it to Jack’s more or less in one piece, with Race having managed to get himself dressed in record time and down into the front hall where Davey was waiting with some painkillers and a glass of water for him.

“You’re a lifesaver,” Race had said.

“Go back upstairs and put your glasses on,” was Davey’s only reply.

But they get to Jack’s, and Jack is waiting on them looking only a little bit put out by their (honestly inevitable) lateness.

“My dumbass brother hold you up there?” Jack asks, because he knows Race and he knows Davey and there’s really only one reason they could be half an hour late like this.

“Yes, always,” says Davey. He pushes past Jack into his apartment, which is half cleaned.

Race has wondered on more than one occasion why Jack still hosts this every year, when his apartment is the size of a shoebox and Race, Davey, and Buttons have a literal house, but if he doesn’t have to clean up after he’s not going to bring it up.

“Is Buttons coming early, too, or is he meeting us at the rink?” Jack asks, joining Davey in the living room and picking up a stray sock to rehome.

“He’s still working on our party sweaters, I think?” says Race. “He got behind on one of his other videos so he isn’t done with them, yet.”

Race and Davey’s housemate has a sewing-themed channel on youtube. He also makes the three of them some kind of matching outfit element for the party every year. This year it’s ugly sweaters, and from what Race has seen at least one of them has actual functioning Christmas lights on it.

“Also, if you think for a second that Buttons is going to be any help at getting your apartment ready for guests, you and I are thinking of different people named Buttons,” Davey adds.

“’Bout yea high, once gave me a forty-minute lecture on what socks we should be wearing for 1776?” Jack says, gesturing vaguely at about his eye level.

“ _Sounds_ like my Buttons,” says Davey, “only having lived with him through college and for three years since, I happen to know that he is deathly allergic to tidying up.”

“Can confirm,” Race chimes in. “I’m pretty sure he almost went into anaphylactic shock the last time he tried to organize his sewing room.”

Davey snorts. “You know what I love about living with you, Race?”

“Hmm?” Race says, having used up his current ability to talk over his headache.

“You always go along with my bullshit,” says Davey. “Without missing a fucking beat.”

Jack rolls his eyes. “Are we picking up, or what?”

“You know, if your house wasn’t such a disaster all the time, we wouldn’t _have_ to come over four hours early to help you clean it up.”

Jack throws a pillow at him.

Race helps get things picked up and books put back on their shelves for a while, but about an hour in a wave of dizziness crashes over him and he sits down heavily on Jack’s couch.

Davey is kneeling in front of him in an instant, his hand on Race’s cheek and his expression concerned. “Hey, Racer, you okay?”

Race hums, nodding, even though it is not true.

“I don’t believe you,” says Davey. This is fair, because Davey knows Race pretty well.

Race blinks hard, trying to steady his brain. “Just dizzy for a sec, Daves, I’m fine.”

“Take a breather,” Davey says. It’s something along the lines of an order. Race nods again.

“He okay?” Jack asks when Davey stands up.

Davey pats the top of Race’s head gently. “He’s been having a rough morning, but he insists he’ll be fine for the party.”

“Well don’t, like, pass out or anything,” says Jack, aiming for sympathetic and missing somewhat.

Race shrugs. “I’ll try.”

“Race,” Davey says, in that same soft, concerned tone.

And the thing is –

Well, Race likes Davey a lot. As a friend. But also as things other than a friend, you know?

And Race is never more aware of that fact than when Davey is worried about him, because he has the full force of Davey’s _Davey-ness_ directed right at him.

“I’m okay, Davey,” Race reiterates, forcing himself to meet Davey’s gaze despite the light flutter in his chest.

At least his heart skipping beats is an improvement over his brain trying to escape from his skull with a jackhammer.

“Okay,” says Davey.

Jack doesn’t even give Race any sass for sitting out the rest of the time he and Davey are getting the apartment ready, although he opens his mouth like he’s going to a few times but closes it again pretty quick at a glare from Davey.

Their cue that it’s time to make for the rink is Buttons’s arrival another hour or so later.

Race, who has graduated from sitting sleepily on the couch to dozing on the couch, is awoken by a gentle hand on his shoulder (Davey’s) and a loud voice shouting about sweaters (Buttons’s).

“Are you sure you’re up for the party, Racer?” Davey asks, that faint crease between his eyebrows back again.

“I’m fine,” Race insists. He straightens his glasses on his face. “Hey, Buttons! Sweaters?”

“Sweaters!” Buttons cheers.

Race perks up, because he’s pretty sure his sweater is the one with the lights on it.

His head still hurts, but less, which given how he felt this morning is nothing short of a miracle.

Buttons hands him his sweater, which he pulls on without even really taking in the decoration on the front. It does, in fact, have a string of tiny Christmas lights attached, strung across the top of a little nativity scene made of cut out bits of other, sacrificed sweaters. It’s even got a star made of some kind of shiny fabric just below the collar, catching the light of the bulbs and reflecting in a satisfying way. Race loves it.

He looks up at Davey, who’s also put his sweater on. Davey’s has a menorah on it with what looks like a pocket full of Velcro-on candles which Buttons is helping Davey attach. Buttons’s own sweater is made to look like a work-in-progress Santa suit, with cartoony, oversized plastic pins along the seams and a “needle and thread” made to look like they were set down partway through attaching the collar.

There isn’t _going_ to be an ugly sweater contest at the party, but if there were, their little family would win.

“These are even better than I expected,” Race says, playing with the lights.

“And they’ll keep us warm at the ice rink,” says Buttons.

“Do the lights have an off switch, Ben?” asks Davey, frowning at Race again.

“You have to take the batteries out, why?”

“Racer’s just been –“

“Davey, I’m _fine_ ,” Race interrupts. “I’m fine. Stop worrying, okay?”

“You know I can’t do that,” Davey replies, rolling his eyes.

“Racer can take care of himself, Dave,” Jack says, throwing an arm around his shoulders. “Chill.”

Davey frowns, but he doesn’t protest any further.

He does, still, insist that Race doesn’t drive when the four of them make their way to the ice rink not long later.

(Davey would’ve insisted on this anyway, since he doesn’t really trust Race behind the wheel of a car at the best of times. Race, who doesn’t especially like driving anyway, is not particularly upset about this.)

He even wedges himself into the backseat with Race, even though he usually claims the passenger’s seat on account of his ungodly long legs.

Race is sitting with his eyes closed and his head tipped back against his headrest; his headache has mostly cleared by now but he knows that the chaos of their friends and the bustle of the ice rink are both surefire ways to bring it back full force.

Albert almost tackles him before he’s even got his skates on, and Race doesn’t regret being here (yet) but he wishes, ever so slightly, that he had slightly less emphatically physically affectionate friends.

Their friend group has been spending at least part of their holiday get together at an ice rink since junior year of high school, so you’d think by now at least some of them would be passable skaters.

They are not.

The sole exception to this rule is Davey, who was brought into the group midway through college by Buttons anyway. Davey grew up playing hockey on frozen ponds with his friends and his sister, and he can skate literal circles around the rest of them.

“If I hold your hand, do you think you can get off the wall for once?” Davey asks Race, holding a hand out to him as he skates backwards in front of him.

They’re at an outdoor rink in a park, and Davey’s face is flushed red from the cold, his icy grey-blue eyes standing out that much more clearly. God, Davey’s pretty.

Race’s breath catches.

“Race?” Davey prompts again.

“Right,” says Race, forcing himself to remember how to breathe. “You’ve gotta catch me if I fall, ‘kay Jacobs?”

“I always do,” says Davey.

Race takes his hand, and lets Davey guide him around the rink. They’re off of the wall now, and Race sort of, mostly, has his feet under him.

“You’d think I’d be better at this,” Race mutters, more to himself than to Davey.

“You have to leave some talents for the rest of us, Racer,” says Davey, laughing.

“Twelve years of dance, Daves!”

“Dance doesn’t involve knives strapped to your shoes, generally.”

“I’m just saying. I should be more coordinated than this.”

“You’re plenty coordinated,” says Davey. “On solid ground.”

Race grumbles indistinctly.

“Hey, how’s your head?” Davey asks softly, shifting from his spot at Race’s left side back to skating backwards in front of him, still holding his hand. “Are you feeling any better?”

“Comes and goes,” Race admits, shrugging. He can’t quite meet Davey’s eye; he knows if he does he’ll see that look of sweet concern, the oddly focused gaze that Race can’t quite resist.

_Fuck_ , at this proximity it’s really hard to ignore how completely gone he is over Davey Jacobs.

(Race _does,_ occasionally, regret never giving into the urge to blurt out said fact in front of Davey. Only occasionally, though.)

With his free hand, Davey reaches for Race’s face, his gloved fingers just trailing across his jawline. “You’re looking better. You looked like death warmed over this morning.”

“Thanks,” Race says with an eyeroll. “I’m not sure it’s quite worth my glasses fogging the fuck up like this. I can’t see shit.”

Davey’s hand falls away, and he tucks it into his pocket. The moment – whatever tha moment had been – is broken.

“I just worry about you, you know,” says Davey.

“Yeah. I know,” says Race. His eyes lock on Davey’s, just for a second. He doesn’t really mean to, but there’s something –

It’s hard to pin down, actually. But there’s _something_ about Davey’s expression that Race is almost sure he hasn’t seen there before.

Davey actually breaks the eye contact first, glancing away toward where Jack has just taken a sprawling fall in the center of the rink. If Race’s eyes aren’t deceiving him – which, given Race’s eyes and the day he’s been having, they probably are – he could almost swear the flush on Davey’s cheeks deepens.

Before Race has time to process what that might mean, if it were in fact a real thing that happened, Buttons’s voice breaks their moment.

“David! Race! Get over here, you’ve both gotta be freezing!”

Buttons and Davey are something like a mom friend match made in heaven, honestly.

He’s waiting for them when they get to him – slow going, because Race is still a little unsteady and Davey is matching his speed – with steaming paper cups of hot chocolate.

“Aren’t you skating, Benny?” Davey asks, raising an eyebrow at Buttons’s conspicuously un-skated feet.

“God no,” says Buttons. “It’s way more fun to watch Jack make a fool of himself trying to impress that new girlfriend of his from a safe distance.”

Race snorts. He takes a sip of his hot chocolate (no whipped cream, because Race _hates_ whipped cream and Buttons is a good friend), not minding the fact that it’s a little too hot still because it’s an easy distraction from the fact that Davey is still, inexplicably, holding his hand.

Buttons, who has let Race know on more than one occasion that he does _not_ have time for Race “pining up a whole Christmas tree farm,” takes one look at Race and groans dramatically.

“Ben?” Davey says, tipping his head to one side.

“Oh, I just remembered a deadline,” says Buttons. “Don’t worry about it.”

Davey hums. “If you say so.” He squeezes Race’s hand. “Race, how’re you holdin’ up?”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Race says again. It’s the most true it’s been all day. “Really, Davey. You don’t have to keep asking.”

“I care about you,” Davey says, shrugging. “You don’t have to push through all the time, Racer.”

“Dave,” Buttons says, nudging Davey’s cup toward him, “if Race says he’s alright, he’s alright. He’ll tell you if he needs looking after.”

“No, he won’t,” says Davey. “Because he’s an idiot, who would rather suffer through a migraine than skip a party with people he sees once a goddamn week.”

This is, unfortunately, true.

“There’s no accounting for bad life choices, I s’pose,” says Buttons. He shrugs. “If he’s gonna lie, he’s gonna suffer. That’s on him, bud.”

“ _He_ is right here,” says Race, crossing his arms. “And _he_ is perfectly capable of getting through this stupid party in one piece.”

“If you say so,” Davey says, and that’s that.

Race does not have many regrets in life, but not opting out of this party is, quite honestly, one of them.

Jack’s apartment is loud and busy and warm and weirdly lit and full of entirely too many people and Race’s headache is surging back again.

He’d separated from Davey and Buttons when they got here, pulled into a card game with Albert and Spot and Jack and Finch. He gets up, weaving around Jack’s girlfriend Katherine who’s working her way over to their little table, scanning the room for Davey as he walks.

Davey isn’t anywhere to be found, as far as Race can see, so short of finding a buddy he opts just to retreat to the relative cool and quiet of Jack’s bedroom.

He curls up on his brother’s bed, shoving the pile of coats aside a little bit to make enough space to lay down. After a little bit of wrestling, he gets the batteries out of the battery pack for his sweater.

A few minutes later, the bedroom door opens again. Race doesn’t turn around or look up, figuring one of their friends just needed something from a jacket pocket, until for the second time today he feels a mattress shift accompanied by Davey’s soft voice.

“Race? Are you okay?”

Race makes a vague noise, gesturing halfheartedly toward his glasses which are resting on the pillow next to him.

“Is your headache back?” Davey asks. Race, face still buried in Jack’s pillow, nods.

Davey’s fingers comb carefully through Race’s hair, his nails gently scratching the scalp. “Do you want to go home?”

“No, I want to be having fun,” Race says, more than a little bit angry that _today_ of all days is the one he can’t handle.

“You don’t look like you’re having fun,” says Davey.

“I’m not.”

“Then let’s go home.”

“I don’t want to ruin your night, Davey.”

“We see our friends all the time,” Davey says. The mattress shifts, and Davey presses the gentlest kiss Race has ever felt to his hair. “I’d rather take you home and make sure you’re okay.”

Race rolls over, blinking up at Davey.

They’re close, _really_ close.

Close enough to –

“Why?” Race asks, just barely more than a whisper.

Davey smiles at him, but that concerned crease is still there between his eyebrows. “Why what?”

“Why would you – I mean, aren’t you having fun?”

“Sure,” says Davey, shaking his head slightly. “But I – Race.”

“What?”

“It’s you,” Davey says a little helplessly. “I love you, Race. You’re the most important one here for me.”

It’s like the whole entire world changes, except –

Race sits up a little too fast, which makes his head spin for a minute. “You what?”

Davey flushes just the faintest bit pink. “ _Race_.”

“No, no, you can’t just _say_ that,” says Race. His head is still pounding, but this is _important_. “You love me like you love Benny, or –“

“No,” Davey says in a hoarse whisper. “Not like Benny at all.”

“You fucking with me, Davey?”

“I would never.”

Except nothing changes, really.

“Good, because –“ Race pauses for a moment, the world still spinning around him. He presses the heel of his hand into his eye, willing the feeling to go away.

Davey pulls his hand away, cold fingers wrapped around Race’s wrist. “Here.”

He picks up Race’s glasses, sliding them carefully onto Race’s face, then presses a soft kiss to his forehead.

“Is that better?” Davey asks, shifting back so Race can see him as more than a blurry smudge.

“Yeah, some,” says Race.

“Let’s go home, Race,” says Davey. “We can – the rest can be for tomorrow. When you’re feeling better.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

They leave. They don’t bother stopping to say goodbye to anybody, although Davey nods to Buttons as they go by, and they don’t talk again until they’re in their house.

“I’ll get you some water,” Davey says. “It’ll help.”

“Daves –“ Race says, but Davey is gone.

He makes for his room, peeling off his sweater but otherwise crawling into bed fully dressed for now.

Davey reappears in his bedroom doorway, a funny sort of mirror to this morning.

“Here,” Davey says, setting the glass he’s carrying down on the bedside table. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

“Davey,” Race says again, and this time Davey stops. He turns, not quite frowning but almost.

“Race?” Davey replies.

“Stay,” Race says. _I love you, too_ , he doesn’t say, but he knows he will.

For now, it’s enough that Davey crawls into the bed next to him, carefully taking his glasses off of his face for him, and lets Race curl up around him with his head on his shoulder.

Tomorrow. The rest is for tomorrow. And Race doesn't regret this day - headache and all - one tiny bit.


End file.
